


A Parting Gift

by Verecunda



Category: The Uninvited (1944)
Genre: Domesticity, Family, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28137411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: The shadow over Windward House is lifted, but it still has one more secret to give up.
Relationships: Pamela Fitzgerald/Dr. Scott, Roderick Fitzgerald/Stella Meredith
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	A Parting Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Age or Wizardry (ageorwizardry)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ageorwizardry/gifts).



“You know,” said Roderick, “I could have sworn this room was supposed to be my private sanctum.”

“Oh, don’t be such a misery, Rick,” Pamela returned. “You wouldn’t have us missing out on _this_ , would you?”

She gestured with her coffee cup toward the big studio window. The view from Windward House was always wonderful, but this evening it was nothing short of glorious. Below the black bar of the cliffs, the sea surged and crashed, throwing up white towers of spray, while above them, the sky was in vibrant, melting shades of honey and fuchsia and saffron, streaked with racing violet clouds. The light of the setting sun was rich and golden, so that the whole studio fairly glowed.

But it wasn’t just the sunset that made the room so bright. Ever since the ghosts departed, the whole atmosphere of the studio had been utterly transformed. That ugly, depressing shadow had lifted, and now the air was light and wholesome, making it the best room in the house. Which was why they were all gathered there after dinner, to enjoy the view while they had their coffee.

“It’s a good view, all right,” said Rick ruminatively. “Would be a good challenge to try capturing the mood of it in music. Like Mendelssohn, you know?” He picked out a steep little swell of notes on the piano, which admirably mimicked the high waves flinging themselves up against the cliffs, then glanced up, looking pretty well pleased with himself. They all applauded.

“Oh, well _done_ , Rick!” said Pamela warmly.

“Very fine,” agreed Dr. Scott. “Sounds like Fitzgerald’s _Cornish Overture_ is already well under way.”

“What do you think, Stella?” asked Roderick, as he made a few quick notes on the music-sheet in front of him.

“Lovely,” replied Stella. Then with a sparkle of mischief, added, “Though I hope it won’t be so much like the real thing that you end up making yourself seasick all over again.”

“Thank you, darling,” said Roderick drily. “Delighted to see you’ve already acquired the family habit of mercilessly ribbing me.” As Stella and Pamela exchanged a conspiratorial smile, he added, “You see, Scott? We’ll have to band together if we hope to stand a chance against both of them.”

Stella laughed: a free, heartwarming sound. Just like the room, she had been transformed in the last few weeks. No longer forced to mould herself to some cold — and entirely spurious — ideal, the real Stella was now free to shine out, bright and vibrant, in a way that was lovely to see; and as she turned to the window, the sunlight added a lustre to her hair and eyes, illuminated the calm happiness of her expression, and brought out the colour in her cheeks. She gazed out the window, out toward where the clouds had whipped themselves into new shapes, casting a mingling of light and shadow across the distant hills that altered the colours and made it seem almost like another view altogether.

“It’s always changing,” she said, half to herself. “It’s always new, from one moment to the next.”

“Yes, it’s stunning,” said Pamela. “I wonder your father didn’t take up as a landscape artist, with a view like that to inspire him!”

“I dare say he must have found enough to inspire him in here,” said Roderick.

“He’s not the only one,” murmured Scott. Catching Pamela’s eye, he glanced across the room and, following his gaze, she saw Roderick gazing at Stella, looking perfectly besotted. She smiled, but despite her amusement, she couldn’t help but be aware of the little touch of melancholy that had entered the air as their thoughts turned to Meredith — and, inevitably, to Carmel.

“I wonder what she thought when she looked out of this window,” Stella murmured — not sadly, exactly, but with a certain wistfulness. “It’s strange… I felt her presence so strongly when she was still here, but I don’t know anything about her. I don’t even know what she looked like.”

Pamela glanced again at Roderick, and saw that his expression had shifted, shadowed now with sympathy and understanding. She knew, without having to ask, what was going on in his head. There had been a great hole left in their lives after their own mother and father died — part of the reason, no doubt, that they’d fallen in love with Windward so instantaneously, since it called to mind the house they’d grown up in. But despite the loss, they had both been old enough that they had plenty of fond memories to hold onto; and there were, besides, photographs and all the things that they had kept from the old place. Those now things surrounded them here, so the memory of their parents was never far away. But Stella had nothing like that. Even after learning the truth, it would still have been nice if she had something tangible to link her to her mother, something more than just a bottle of perfume.

“It might be worth asking some of the older people in town,” said Scott gently. “It was before my time, I know, but there must be some people who were able to see past the gossip.”

“Perhaps,” replied Stella, a little doubtful. “But I get the feeling she didn’t have many friends around here.”

“Stella—” began Roderick, but was interrupted by the door opening and Lizzie putting her head into the room.

“Pardon me, Miss Pamela, Mister Roderick, but I thought I’d come up and ask if you’d be wanting any more coffee up here?”

“Oh, no,” said Pamela, “no, we’re all ship-shape here, thank you, Lizzie.”

“Well, then, if you’re not needing me, I’ll be downstairs, putting me feet up.”

Just then, there came a scuffling out on the landing, and a second later Bobby appeared, toddling through the half-open door between Lizzie’s ankles.

“Bobby!” cried Pamela, leaning down and opening her arms to him. Bobby accepted the invitation gladly and trotted over, whereupon she scooped him up, laughing as he wriggled about to lick her face. “Yes, yes, I’m overjoyed to see you, too, I’m sure. What have you been up to, then?”

“Oh, he’s been down in the kitchen with me,” said Lizzie. “Begging for leftovers and trying to get Whiskey to join in his antics, the creature.”

“And now you thought you’d try your luck up here, did you?” said Pamela, scratching under his ears. Bobby, pleased at having his genius acknowledged, wagged his stumpy little tail energetically, then slipped out of her arms to the floor, where he began sniffing about the room in search of crumbs or anything else that seemed promising.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” said Lizzie. “Good evening to you.”

Followed by a chorus of “Good evening, Lizzie”s, she closed the door behind her, and the conversation soon turned back to the subject of Roderick’s new Cornish composition.

“Maybe you could try an operetta,” suggested Pamela. “Something great and dramatic with those great cliffs and the sea as a backdrop.”

“There’s certainly plenty of interesting old traditions and legends round here to draw on,” said Scott. “Full of forbidden love and family feuds and the like. The very stuff of operas.”

“Sounds like just the thing,” said Roderick, warming to the idea straight away. “Any chance of hearing one of them?”

“I always loved the one about the mermaid and the sailor,” put in Stella. “Our old housekeeper used to tell it to me — when Grandfather was well out of earshot, of course.”

“Ah, yes,” said Scott, with a wry look. “If you go by the folklore, mermaids used to be quite rife along the Cornish coastline here. Where’s that church with the carving on the pew, the one where the mermaid was supposed to sit and sing when she came ashore? Zennor, is it?”

“Oh, but that sounds fascinating!” cried Pamela. “We ought to take a drive out there one day and see it. I just adored all those old Irish mermaid stories that Lizzie used to tell us whenever we went to the seaside — do you remember, Rick? The one about the saint and the mermaid, and all the old clans who were supposed to have a mermaid for a great-great-grandmother. I always thought they were just charming stories, but now I wonder…”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Pam!” Roderick scoffed. “You’re going to start believing in _mermaids_ , of all things?”

“Well, why not?” Pamela countered at once. “I can’t believe you, of all people, are going to start being a brutal old sceptic, Rick, after everything we’ve been through.”

“Ghosts are one thing, dear sister, mermaids are quite another.”

“Well, if one exists, why not the other? After all, legends have to come from somewhere.”

This debate might have gone on indefinitely, and without achieving any resolution; only then Stella broke in between them: “What is it, Bobby? What have you found?”

All talk of mermaids was suspended for the present, while attention was diverted to what had caught Stella’s attention. Bobby was over at the far wall, sniffing insistently at the panelling. Whatever he’d sensed behind it was clearly desperately fascinating, for he even started scrabbling at it with his paws, giving little excited yaps.

“What on earth are you doing there, Bobby?” called Pamela. “Don’t tell me we have mice.”

“We’ll have to get Lizzie to have a stern talk with Whiskey,” said Roderick, “if he’s lying down on the job.”

“What is it, darling?” asked Stella. “What have you found?” Putting down her cup, she crossed the room and crouched down next to him, reaching out to ruffle his coat. Then, just a moment later, she gave a little exclamation of surprise. “Oh!”

“What is it, Stella?” asked Roderick.

“There’s something here,” she replied, putting her free hand to the wall. “Something… it looks like a door.”

“A door?” Roderick was already out of his seat. “I’ve never noticed any door there before. Have you, Pam?”

“Not at all!”

“Well, it’s here all right,” said Stella. “It’s quite low, and I didn’t make it out until I was right here next to it. Let me see…”

Intrigued, the others pressed forward to watch. Now that it had been pointed out to them, Pamela saw it: set deep into the wall and cunningly disguised into the panelling, with no more than a hairline crack to give away its position. As they watched, Stella dug her nails into the space, trying to edge it out. “It’s a tight fit, but I don’t think it’s locked.”

“Marvellous,” grumbled Roderick, digging his hands into his trouser pockets. “That’s all we need now. A secret door. Given our track record, it’ll lead straight to a torture chamber.”

“Oh, hush!” Pamela waved at him to be quiet as Stella continued trying to prise it open. “I wonder what it is?”

“A smuggler’s passage?” said Stella, glancing up with a swift smile.

“Or the tomb of King Arthur,” suggested Scott. With a smile at Pamela, he added, “While we’re on the subject of myths and legends. You can’t go anywhere in Cornwall without tripping over something that’s meant to relate back to the old boy in one way or another.”

“Here,” said Roderick, hunkering down next to Stella, “let me give you a hand with that.” Between them, by slow degrees, they worked the little door open, just enough for Stella to crook her fingers about the edge and pull it free, groaning across the floorboards. Beyond was revealed a dark space, and at once, they all leaned forward, keen to see what was inside; Bobby included, wagging and sniffing eagerly.

“It’s some sort of cupboard,” said Stella.

“What’s all that?” asked Pamela, catching sight of an indistinct dusty heap inside.

Stella shuffled forward on her knees, and Roderick joined her, lifting Bobby out the way. Together, they dragged something out of the little cubbyhole, pulling away the sheet that had been laid over it, and coughing at the cloud of dust that rose in its wake.

“Well?” prompted Scott. “What is it?”

“It’s a box,” said Stella — and after another moment, added, “full of canvases, it looks like.” She flicked through them to demonstrate, one after the other. Then, reaching further into the box, she added, “And sketchbooks.” She lifted one out, and wiped the dust away from the cover to reveal a label. “Llewellyn Meredith.”

There was a hushed, collective intake of breath.

“He must have put this all here before he left,” said Roderick.

Stella nodded slowly. She was staring at the label with an expression that was full of wonder — and even, almost, a little afraid — and she held the book in her hands as if it were not an old, rather battered sketchbook, but rather an heirloom made of the most delicate spun glass.

“Go on,” urged Pamela gently. “Let’s see.”

With a little hurried movement, like one jolting suddenly awake, Stella reached over and pulled the first canvas free, blew the fine film of dust from its surface, then held it up to the light.

“Oh!” she breathed.

Meredith had been a fine artist: they’d all seen the portrait of Mary hanging in the Commander’s house. But accomplished though it was, even that couldn’t hold a candle to the portrait they now saw. Not Mary this time, but another young woman, with flowing dark hair and olive skin.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” said Pamela. 

Roderick gave a nod. “Carmel.”

She looked out at the viewer with wide dark eyes, and with the same expression with which she must have looked back at Meredith as he sat at his easel, here in this very room: head slightly to one side, chin resting lightly in one hand, and with the gleam of a smile playing about her lips. The details of dress and background had been left vague, allowing her face to stand out with an almost living vivacity.

“She’s very like you, Stella,” said Scott.

“Yes,” agreed Pamela, “she is.”

The physical resemblance was only slight — perhaps something about the nose and chin, and in the way the hair curled — which must certainly have made things easier when passing Stella off as the child of Meredith and Mary. No, it was a resemblance that ran deeper, that came from within rather than from without: the same light in the eyes, the same gentle warmth in the smile. Meredith had captured those qualities with the insight lent by love and intimacy. Even more than the shape of her face, or the blue-violet lights in her hair, with every brushstroke he had captured the very essence of Carmel herself, so that, looking at the portrait, Pamela half-fancied she could catch the golden scent of mimosa wafting from the canvas.

Lightly, with wondering fingers, Stella reached out to touch the canvas. Beside her, Roderick wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her into his side. She leaned into him, accepting his comfort, letting her head rest on his shoulder for a second or two before her curiosity caught up with her again. Propping the canvas carefully against the wall, she picked up the sketchbook once more and opened it.

It was full of drawings: portraits, or studies for portraits. Carmel, in a whole plethora of moods and attitudes: standing and seated, dancing and reclining; smiling, melancholy, teasing, pensive. Some had clearly been sketched indoors, while from the flying quality of her hair and clothes in others, it was evident that they had been drawn outside: perhaps out on the cliffs, or down on the little beach below. The variety of them was dazzling, and each one was sketched in with such sympathetic precision, that by the time Stella turned to the last page, Pamela felt she knew Carmel as well as any old friend, every mood and facet of her personality.

“She’s so lovely,” said Stella, full of awe.

“But why on earth did Meredith leave them here?” asked Pamela. “Do you think he just couldn’t bear to have any reminders of her?”

“Or perhaps,” said Scott, “he left them here in the hope that Stella would come back one day and find them.”

“Poor Father,” murmured Stella, running her hand almost consolingly over his name on the cover of the book. “Poor Mother, too. I wish they could have found a way to be happy together.”

There was a short silence then, all of them a little subdued by the thought of all that thwarted love, all that loss. All those secrets that had lain hidden for so long. Just a moment or two, as if they were paying their respects, before Stella went on:

“But I’m glad I have these, at least. I don’t want her to have to stay in the shadows any more.” She looked between Roderick and Pamela, her whole face animated and eager. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, if we put it up in the house somewhere?”

“Not at all,” said Roderick. “Where would you like her, darling? Pride of place above the mantelpiece downstairs, or in the old nursery? Or what about in here?”

“Oh, yes!” replied Stella at once. “Yes, I think this is the right place — where she was painted. On this wall, maybe, so the light can catch her best.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” replied Roderick grandly. “Come on, let’s find the place for her.”

Eagerly, Stella gathered up the canvas, heedless of the dust now smeared across her skirt, and between them, she and Roderick held it up to the wall, moving and angling it until they found a spot where the light fell full upon it.

“Marvellous!” Pamela exclaimed. “She lights the place up like a beacon.”

“She could do with a proper frame,” said Scott. “Mr. Trehearn in town would be just the man for the job.”

“Yes,” agreed Stella. “I’ll take her to him first thing tomorrow.”

“We’ll come with you,” said Pamela decisively. “Till then, we’d better find something to wrap her up in. Come on, we’ll go downstairs and have a look. I’m sure Lizzie must have something suitable put by…”

“And then we might sneak down to the cellar for a little something,” said Roderick. “Raise a glass or two to your mother and father, Stella, for leaving you such a splendid parting gift.”

**Author's Note:**

> I had to laugh when I read your letter, when you described your roommates' reaction to the characters talking about how ugly and gloomy the studio is. I showed the film to my family a couple of months ago, and their reaction was exactly the same. I think that’s why I ended up using it as the setting for this fic!
> 
> Wishing you Happy Holidays, and a very merry Yuletide!


End file.
